Tied and Bound
by BookAddict67
Summary: Slave AU. In world after Lucifer rose. Angels and demons are at war. Humans are slaves. Only a few human cities left not under demon control. Doesn't follow canon at all. Main paring: Destiel. Disclaimer: I don't own Supernatural or any of the characters. Cover is Shackles by mavichaos on DeviantArt; if you are mavichaos and wish for me to take it down, please tell.
1. The Crossroads

Chapter 1: The Crossroads

A dark room filled with hundreds of bodies crowded together. Loud voices and euphoric laughter. The bittersweet smell of liquor and sweat. Heat radiating in waves off of humans and demons alike. The air was stuffy and hot. Then again, the only thing that needed to breathe was the merchandise.

It was easy to tell the owners from the property. Well, at least it was for Castiel. He had trained years for this post, and was the only one is his garrison who could pull off such a glamour. He could tell by the dark auras and the bright souls. The differences in the laughter, one unfeeling and cruel, while the other hysterical or broken. But most of all, he could tell in the way they acted. Demons were merciless; they never tired, never feared, never felt. Humans, on the other hand, were fragile, they died, they cried, they slept.

Castiel navigated through crowd, trying not to hit too many people; but between the size of the room and the number of people, it was practically impossible. Finally he managed to get to the bar, and sat down on one of the numerous barstools. He didn't drink most of the time, being an angel he was not tempted by sin. But occasionally he took a few drinks to keep up his appearance as a demon.

To any passerby Castiel would have black eyes and the same dark aura that surrounded other demons. It was a difficult task, even for angels, to mimic such strong faerie magic. He had the natural talent for it though, and mastered it in a matter of years. Only a few angels could ever fully and completely hold a glamour; those who could were very far and few. Castiel was one of these rare angels.

"Hey, pretty boy, what d'ya want?"

Castiel looked up and saw an attractive woman, most presumably the bar tender, standing in front of him. The brunette had a surprisingly deep voice. She was wearing a nice red blouse and a blue apron with the words 'The Crossroads' written in bold white. And, not to mention, she was a demon.

"A beer," Castiel responded. '_Huh, why not?'_

"Commin' right up." He watched as she turned around and grabbed a beer from the icebox on her right.

"Here ya go," she put a cold bottle of beer, still wet with condensation, in front of him. Castiel picked up the bottle, and stopped himself from thanking her. He looked up. The bartender had made no move to leave; instead she had planted both elbows down on the counter in front of him and was looking at him expectantly.

"What?" Castiel asked.

"I haven't seen you in these parts before. Got a name?"

"Castiel," she looked at him, interested.

"Where d'ya get that from?" Not many humans know this, but demons often changed or made new names for themselves after crawling out of Hell.

"Took it from some angel," Castiel said nonchalantly. It wasn't uncommon, lots of demons, kind of in a way to mock them, stole the names of angels they killed. "You?"

"Meg." She turned her head to the left; a man had called her, well they had called the bartender. She looked at Castiel one more time and smirked.

"See you around Clarence." She grabbed a rag from under the counter and left. Castiel tilted his head slightly in confusion, '_had he perhaps told her the wrong name?'_ He shook his head. He had learned quickly not to question the actions of a demon.

He drank his beer alone. He didn't mind though, it was a great time to get more information. All around him, demons spoke of the latest news, the freshest gossip. That was really the whole point of the job: to collect information. He had been told to infiltrate, and he had. So now he was a mole, hurting them from the inside. He wasn't too important here; he was average and went unnoticed. And that was exactly what they wanted.

His thoughts though were cut short by a loud 'Welcome to the Crossroads' said in a thick Scottish accent. The auction had begun.

* * *

Don't get me wrong, Castiel hated the demon's enslavement of humans. It was disgusting, and Castiel utterly despised the trade. But he was told not to draw attention to himself; and thus Castiel could never act on his opinion.

Castiel watched from his spot on the barstool as a Scottish man in a tailored black suit stood on the stage, in front of the microphone, and introduced himself as Crowley, owner of the club. The stage wasn't too big, but it covered one entire wall of the six walled room. He also welcomed the slave merchant Alastair, a scrawny, tall demon with a remorseless face, who had been standing in the corner the whole time. Alastair greeted all the demons, all of_ us_, Castiel corrected. He announced that the shipment this evening had come from Ilchester and there was a chorused cheer. Everyone knew that the capital, Ilchester, Maryland, was where Lucifer had risen twenty years ago; in remembrance it was declared the capital of his new country, _Infernus Et In Terra_, and he still resided there to this very day. Ever since the moment Lucifer had risen he was determined to raise Hell with him, hence the name.

The crowd buzzed with excitement, some of these slaves may have been in front of Lucifer himself. One by one, slaves were brought to the stage from behind the curtain, and auctioned off. They weren't ordered according to age, sex, race, or quality; Castiel had been to enough auctions to know that. They were instead lined up according to their numbers; each slave was given a branded number when they entered the market; it was burned into their flesh, on the left arm for males, and the right arm for females.

Slaves were never bought at the same price. Stronger, younger slaves were more expensive and sold quicker, while weaker slaves were bought cheap by halfhearted buyers. And for especially desirable slaves, demons bid until all but one was left.

Castiel took each slave, buyer, and purchase into account. Information was still information, not matter how important. Most slaves were either bought because of their strength by wealthy demons or as simple servants and laborers by lesser ones. He took special attention to a few purchases in particular, though. A strong muscular slave, Gordon, was bought by the Alastair. This surprised Castiel because merchants usually did not buy from their own auction. And Crowley, the club owner, bought an old, battered slave named Robert, whose eyes glittered with intelligence. '_Well, I guess it depends on what you're looking for in a slave._'

Surprisingly slaves were sold with names. It was an odd tradition, but demons, most commonly, bought a slave knowing their name, and then changed it in a show of ownership. '_Another despicable thing about the slave trade,'_ Castiel thought as the last slave was brought forth. He had to leave soon, to avoid the nightly rush. He stood from his seat and straightened out his well-worn trench coat. As he turned, about to leave, the last slave came out.

He was relatively tall, 6'1", only an inch taller than Castiel, but still tall. He had tanned skin, from long hours of labor, and a light brown, almost dirty blonde, hair that stuck up at the ends. He looked strong, but there were so many bruises and scars that he seemed frail and damaged. That also may have been why no one was eager to buy him. But he was strong, handsome, and young. A typical slave.

But there was something different about him, something that made Castiel stop and stare; it transfixed him. It was the way he stood. He was calm and his face betrayed no emotion; he stood tall, back straight, even with the weight of extra shackles around his neck and ankles. He didn't cower, like the rest. He didn't whimper in fear. He just stood there, looking straight forward, not meeting anyone's eyes. As if he was above them all.

"Anyone want this one?" Alastair asked the unenthusiastic crowd. He yanked on the slave's chains, probably hoping for a reaction, but still he remained quiet.

"Come on, Dean over here ain't so bad. He's young, and strong as a bull," Alastair pleaded. '_That's it,' _Castiel thought numbly, '_they haven't broken him yet.'_

"I'll give'm cheap, only two hundred," Alastair said, still trying to salvage the sell. The slave, Dean, wrinkled his nose, as if disgusted by the price. He turned his head slightly to the left, and his eyes strayed a little too low.

Dean looked down at the only person watching him. Castiel. Dean's emerald green eyes met Castiel's ethereal blue ones. Their gazes locked. That moment, that fraction of a second, felt like an eternity to Castiel. He stared into Dean's eyes intently, losing himself as he did. They had such depth, Castiel could tell, but all that was inside them lay behind an impenetrable wall.

Dean looked away quickly, trying to amend his mistake. But the damage was already done.

Without realizing it, Castiel's hand went up. It didn't ask permission from Castiel, it acted entirely on its own accord.

Everyone looked at Castiel in surprise. A shocked silence fell in the club. _Why would anyone want a defective slave?_ No one had thought the slave would be bought. Even Alastair had begun to give up. He looked at Castiel, a foolish customer, with pity. _'Good luck controlling him,' _he thought bitterly. He had tried himself, and got a scar out of that, none the less.

Alastair nodded slowly, and one of the staff brought, scratch that, dragged Dean off the stage to the back room. There were still a few forms to fill out.

Castiel went through the entire process numbly. Filling out information. Signing on one line after another. When it was finally done, he led Dean out of The Crossroads, holding him by the arm. His hand burned, and his mind raced. He only had one thought:

_'What have I done?'_

Little did he know that Dean's thoughts were along the same lines.

* * *

A Long Author's Note

A clarification if i may, the _'__italics' _are thoughts, and anything that is in _italics_ without the apostrophes are just for emphasis. Yeah. Oh, and its spelled faerie NOT fairy. Learn how to spell people, come on.

Thanks for everyone for reading and reviewing When Two Futures Collide. I love you all. I'm a horrible writter and person, so whenever i get your sweet reviews i can't stop smilling. Thanks to everyone, i would name you all, but i feel i might forget someone and that would suck. Special thanks to family-and-free-will, if it wasn't for her i probably wouldn't have posted this so soon, or at all. And, of course, a special totally reserved thanks to SuperWhoAvengeMerLockBOOKS for being an awesome friend, kitten, and advisor. Somehow she manages to reply to all my maddening emails. She is the best and i don't feel bad at all using my fanfic as a way to make you lives better.

READ THIS (and review or else i will force you):

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Great. Please, if you wasted your time to read this, waste another minute and write a review. More reviews will make me write more and faster. And they make my day brighter, even though i am obviously a very dark person. I will probably start a new story because my mind is stupid and won't ever concentrate on one thing at at time.

Thanks for being awesome. If no one actually reads this, its okay i don't blame you. I wouldn't read it either.

See you next time. DFTBA. ;)


	2. Marked

Chapter 2: Marked

Dean stood in the motel bathroom, in front of the mirror, and regarded his reflection for the first time in months.

He had lost a few pounds and looked a hell of a lot weaker than the last time he checked. He face was sunken, cheek bones sharp, and he saw many more injuries and such than before.

The man in the mirror seemed foreign to Dean. A ghost of his former self. A lot had changed since that fateful day in the fields of Lawrence. Dean watched while the man winced with pain as he raised the bottom of his standard grey shirt, revealing discolored skin black, blue, and pink with newly formed bruises and scars. Alastair was to blame for most of them, but Dean couldn't say it was all his fault. Dean did have a part in it too.

_When was the last time he didn't hurt?_

_ 'At the Road House,'_ Dean thought nostalgically, almost able to smell their trademark greasy, unhealthy food a thousand miles away. He had been eating burgers, having a few beers, and unsuccessfully trying to get into Jo's pants that day. A whisper of a smirk made its way on Dean's face, recalling the first time they met; Jo had pointed a shotgun at him, and he, not taking that seriously, ended up with a punch to the nose. Sam was there too, laughing every time Jo burst Dean's bubble.

_Sam._

It was too difficult to think of Sam. _'That damn kid. He was still so young at twenty seven. He always saw the best in people'_

_ 'Sees,'_ Dean corrected, angry at himself.

_'I'll get him back. I have to. I've been taking care of that boy since he was in diapers, he ain't getting rid of me that easy,'_ Dean promised. _'And no one, not even the Devil, can stop me.'_

Oh how wrong he was.

But until then, Dean was stuck in god-knows-where with some god-knows-who demon. Somehow, even after going through the purchasing process, Dean still had no idea who his new master was.

Dean looked at the door wearily, thinking about his master. Ever since they had walked into the motel room, the demon had been sitting on the old chair in the corner; he seemed distracted and had been muttering unintelligible things.

Compared to what he was sure would come, Dean figured that this was as close to paradise as he'd get. And it would be a while before he got a chance like this again. He should spend it wisely. There was no telling the next time he'd have a peaceful moment.

Dean heaved a sigh. It was time to take inventory of his injuries. He needed to know his limits before he started to work, and if he ever attempted to do what he fully intended on doing.

Dean started canvassing his skin, taking in all of it. He began treating his wounds, cleaning them; a luxury he hadn't had for the last several months. Slowly losing himself in the constant task of cleaning and binding, with strips of his shirt, Dean's mind wandered and he thought back to what happened little over an hour ago…

_ …Dean stood on a small platform behind what he assumed to be a stage. He was last in line, and watched as slowly each slave was taken forward, through the opening in the side of the curtain. It was honestly a very tedious process. Dean had been to seven auctions so far, and still here he was. _

_'_I'm never gonna be bought,' _he thought grimly, '_and while I'm here rotting, Sammy could be layin' dead in the street.'_ Great. Dean remembered the sick, awful son of a bitch, and how he had laughed when Dean knocked out four guards trying to get to Sam. He had freakin' laughed!_

_The bastard._

_They had finally gone through all the slaves before him, and now it was Dean's turn. None of them had been brought back, which wasn't surprising considering how many there had been left. Alastair had been dragging them all across the country, slowly selling all the slaves he had until he ran out. If Dean was right, this would be his last auction before turning back to get a new shipment. Which made Dean the last slave._

_They had saved the best for last. _

_Two men, no sorry, demons came to get Dean. They grabbed either arm and began leading Dean to the stage. They only walked a few yards before Dean could see a dim triangular patch of light which he assumed was the club._

"Back straight_._" _Dean stood up taller, straightening out his slumped back._

"Chin up." He _pointed his chin up. _

"No eye contact."_ Dean would remember that._

"And most important, be proud." _He was, with a little arrogance mixed in there as well._

_Dean heard the oft repeated phrases in the soothing voice of Mary Winchester. That was what she always said with the demons. Dean remembered, even though he was four years old the last time it was said to him. And he heard it before each auction. Dean idly wondered if she knew how much he was using the advice, years later. But he highly doubted she had seen this future for him._

_He passed the blue-black curtains, and was bombarded by the smell of sweat and alcohol. Oh, what he'd do for a beer. A pudgy, short demon and Alastair stood in front. A hundred non-human faces looked up at him with distaste. _

_He was on stage. Let the bidding begin._

_Alastair came up to Dean, grabbed his chains, and started offering. It was a rather pitiful sight. They had been standing for a few minutes now, but no one wanted him. It was so horrible, that Alastair was offering to give him for only $200. That was it. _

_It was disgusting._

_Dean was used to the looks, the disapproval, the lust, the greed, the glances at his extra, 'bad behavior' shackles and scars. He expected that. What he didn't expect was the man in the trench coat._

_In that one moment when Dean slipped up and looked down, he saw him. There he was, separate from everyone else, yet still a part of them all. He just stood there. But he wasn't looking at Alastair, or the shackles, or the bruises. No. He was looking at Dean. He was staring at Dean. _

_Staring into Dean's soul._

_And Dean, going against the rules. returned the favor. He looked into the demon's eyes and marveled at their raw beauty. They were blue. A lush beautiful shade of blue that just somehow made the stars dull by comparison. They stood out. Shining brightly in the crowd of black holes that surround them. _

_Dean just continued staring and so did the demon. They shared a moment, a moment in which, without any knowledge of it, their hearts beat in sync. Their souls, one bruised and scarred, the other twisted and molded, connected. It was instantaneous and spontaneous. And great. _

_And all too soon Dean felt himself sever that connection. _

_As they broke eye contact their private world shattered. Dean broke free of the trance, and internally cursed at himself for being so stupid._

_But then the craziest, most impossible thing happened._

_Dean Winchester was bought…_

A strained hiss escaped Dean's clenched teeth.

He was brought out of his revere by a sharp, burning pain traveling down his left arm. He glared at the torn sleeve, scared to see the damage, but determined to face it.

Time to deal with it.

Dean began to peel the wet, bloody sleeve off of his tender skin, grimacing with pain. The whole time he looked away; he had no food in his stomach to throw up, but he tasted bile in his mouth.

When it was finally over, and the ruined piece of cloth was no longer stuck to Dean's arm, he turned his head to the left and opened his eyes, ready for the worst.

And, of course, he was shocked by what he saw.

There on his arm was a hand print, burned into his very flesh. The angry red mark stood above the surrounding skin. And the exposure to air was making it burn more. Dean had never seen one before, but there was only one thing it could be:

A brand.

He had been branded. And the information made him dizzy, and nausea rolled over him in waves. He grabbed the edge of the sink and stared at the brand in the mirror, unable to look at the real thing.

A brand was a special, specific mark a master gave their slave. But only extremely powerful demons had the ability to mark their slaves. It was an undeniable show of ownership, which meant that the slave could never have another master. They could never enter the slave market again. If they were to ever run away, there were only two options left for them: to be hunted down or to be killed.

Dean took a few shuddering breaths. He needed to calm down. Or else he'd have a panic attack and that wouldn't end well. He slowly lowered himself to the cool, tiled floor. He sat, legs pulled up to his chest, rocking slowly.

_Breathe._

The real desperation and sick cruelty of his current position came crashing down on him. It finally hit him. He was a slave. An animal. Not a human. Not a person. An animal. Nothing more, nothing less.

And that was all that he could be. He was stuck here. Forever.

Unless…he could get away.

He could do it. Find Sam. Run away. It was possible. All he had to do was make it to Wyoming. To get to the Devil's Trap, the last human place left. Dean knew a bit about hunting, whatever he picked up as a kid from his father. It was enough. He could do it.

And without another sound, Dean stood up from the floor. He picked up all the tattered cloth and cleaned the blood off of the counter. He glanced at the brand, as long as he could, and decided not to touch it. He couldn't do anything about it.

But it didn't make sense to walk around with it showing. He took the largest, most clean cloth he could find and wrapped it, like gauze, over his brand. He wouldn't mention it, who knew what his new master was like? He threw away all the extra cloth and checked to make sure that he hadn't forgotten anything. He hadn't.

Until he knew more about his master he was gonna play it safe, and not do anything _too_ reckless.

And with that thought Dean turned to the door, and reached out his hand. He faltered before touching the knob_._

_ What did he expect behind that door?_

There were so many ways this could go wrong, and not a single way this could go right. But never the less, Dean grabbed the knob, twisted it, and pushed the door open with a creak.

He had no idea what would happen, but at least he knew that he hadn't given up.

And he stepped forward.

* * *

**Author's Note:**

**I'm so sorry for not posting this earlier. I've been really busy and honestly i can never focus on one thing. Thanks for being awesome and reviewing. You know who you are. Please continue to review if you have bothered to read this.  
**

**Obviously as you might have realized the anatomy of angels and demons are a little different from canon. For example angels have actual physical wings. Demons still have to possess their bodies, but they usually stick to one or two bodies. But there are special cases.**

**If you have any questions please ask! And the pov will usually stay the same throughout the chapter, but i might jump around sometimes. *cough* next chapter *cough***

**I promise to post the third chapter soon, i won't take nearly as long as i did last time. Thanks again.**

**DFTBA. Fight the faeries. Jack.  
**


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